


As the years go by

by teeglow



Series: Constance and Aramis, heart to heart [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anti-Jacques, Aramis and Constance are bros - Freeform, D'Artagnan does not appear but he is talked about A LOT, Episode: s02e07 A Marriage of Inconvenience, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teeglow/pseuds/teeglow
Summary: Tag to S2E7 A Marriage of Inconvenience. Constance is grieving over her husband - fortunately Aramis is there to comfort her and remind her that she has a right to be happy.





	As the years go by

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Randy Newman's 'You've Got A Friend In Me'. Takes place shortly after the events of A Marriage of Inconvenience. There is nothing romantic between Constance and Aramis, they just get each other. After all, Aramis is emotionally intelligent, even if he's emotionally constipated when it comes to himself.

Aramis bumps into Constance at the market. She doesn’t notice him at first, nor him her, both preoccupied and both looking drawn from sleepless nights. Aramis almost steps straight into her in his effort to dodge the path of two children running about in the street. He turns to apologise but stops when he sees who it is.

There’s a moment before they both know what to do. They haven’t seen each other since D’Artagnan delivered the news of Constance’s husband’s death and neither are quite sure how to act or what to say. 

‘Hello,’ she says shortly in the end. 

They nod at each other and Constance turns back to the apple cart she was standing in front of and adds more to her basket. 

‘Do you need any help?’ Aramis asks, coming to stand beside her.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she says without looking at him, a little more curtly than Aramis is used to. Aramis guesses, with a little squint of his eye, that it’s more a self-preservation thing as opposed to anger, but still, it’s unusual for Constance, who is mostly so warm. He thinks even her slaps come with some degree of affection.

There’s a beat where she seems to realise her coldness and though she doesn’t soften, she does at least afford Aramis a glance. ‘The King wanted apple pie but the kitchen had run out of apples so I volunteered. I couldn’t- I didn’t want to be-’ 

‘You didn’t want to be in the palace anymore,’ Aramis finishes for her. He nods in understanding. ‘I’m sorry Constance.’

She looks down at the floor hopelessly and stops loading her basket. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly, ever the dutiful wife, now the dutiful widow. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but here and Aramis watches as she busies herself with digging out her coin purse to pay. He waits for her to finish her business with the grocer, unsure of why but thinking perhaps they’ll fall into a rhythm soon enough, and it doesn’t feel right to walk away.

For her part, Constance studiously ignores him as she hands over her coins, and before he knows it, she is moving away without so much as a goodbye. 

Aramis utters a quiet little ‘oh’ as she passes him and turns to watch her go with a frown. She walks nothing like the woman he’s come to know over the last year; her shoulders are tensed, shawled in black, and there’s a sort of shyness that he’s never seen in her before. She looks at no one, even as they stare at her, and her head is as bowed as it can be without risking a collision in the street. 

Aramis’ frown deepens and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, unsure whether his instinct to follow is right, but decides in the end that it is the lesser of two evils. He can’t let her walk back to the palace like this. He strides into step with her, and thinks if she wants to be alone, she’ll have to tell him so in as many words. 

‘Mind if I join you?’ he asks, as casually as he can, and he takes it as something of a yes that she doesn’t really respond beyond a small shrug. She steps over a muddy puddle, where the baker has tipped out his water and Aramis, distracted by his careful watch of her forlorn face, steps right into it, cursing under his breath as it splashes all up his boots.

He shakes the water off, but Constance has carried on walking without a word. He has to jog a little to catch up with her. 

‘Constance?’ he asks, gently, as he falls into step once more.

‘Hmm?’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘I can’t imagine there is, no.’

‘Constance,’ he says again, seriously this time, almost to the point of being stern, as he reaches out to stop her. ‘Are you okay?’

She’s not and they both know it. Her bottom lip seems to tremble until she remembers to tell it not to and her eyes are red-rimmed in her pale face. Her hands grip her basket so tightly her knuckles are white and she flinches away when Aramis reaches out tentatively again. He winces but increases his pace again to match hers as she strides away.

‘Constance, you know if you needed to talk-’

‘Talk about what?’ she says tightly.

If it’s possible to be simultaneously withering and kind, that’s the look Aramis directs at her now. She doesn’t know what he expects her to say, but tears brim in her eyes as she lowers her voice to whisper angrily, ashamedly, ‘My husband is dead and everyone knows I didn’t love him.’ Her mirthless voice catches. ‘What else is there to say?’

She banishes the tears, looks up and wills them away and is grateful to find that she’s successful for now. But Aramis is still there. 

‘Constance-’

‘Aramis, please. Go back to the garrison. You were at the palace all night, you can barely stand for the bags under your eyes. You needn’t bother yourself with me.’

Aramis takes her by the elbow and turns her to look at him. ‘I’m not bothering myself, I want to make sure you’re alright.’

‘I had an affair with your friend, that doesn’t obligate you to-’

‘Whatever you and D’Artagnan are has no bearing on how much I care for you,’ he says sensibly. He straightens up and frowns indignantly. ‘Forgive me, I had hoped you knew that by now.’

Constance has the good grace to look ashamed and Aramis softens, having had no intention of making her feel worse. She looks at him from beneath her eyebrows and sighs. ‘I do know. I’m sorry, Aramis. I’m just-’

‘Grieving,’ he says, kindly, understanding bleeding through every syllable. She would hate it if she didn’t know how incredibly sincere it was. And she had already insulted this man once today for trying to help.

She looks up at him properly, and she wants to put on a brave face, to smile at him as so many people do around Aramis, but she can’t and somehow that means she’s now close to tears instead. Aramis must sense it or see it in her face, because he puts his arm around her shoulder and tears do come then, thick and fast. 

Aramis takes the basket from her hand and steers her, shaking, into a passageway so to avoid the stares of any onlookers. He sweeps a stoop with his bare hand, which does absolutely nothing but is at least an attempt at cleaning it, before directing Constance to sit down. He takes the spot beside her and his arm resumes its comforting place around her shoulder.

She’s too embarrassed to say it but later she’d realise how grateful she was for the place to rest her head.

‘I’m sorry-’ she says, pressing the heel of her hand into her eyes in an attempt to stop the tears, but she can’t and Aramis hushes her gently. If she wasn’t feeling so utterly miserable, she might wonder what on earth made this man become a soldier. His char was wasted on the profession, though his brothers may disagree, and frankly, his erstwhile commitment to the role should make Parisian women weep because their ideal husband married France instead. 

It’s a funny thing to be crying so hard now, she thinks, Jacques was hardly an ideal husband. But perhaps that’s exactly why she’s so upset. She is desperately sad about Jacques, of course she is, she wishes she could have loved him harder and better, but it’s the guilt she can’t shake really. Guilt that Jacques doesn’t deserve, but it’s there nonetheless. Because of all her regrets, it’s not that so much that he’s dead, it’s that she wishes she had left him sooner. 

Not that he would have allowed her to. She did try once, after all. He knew she was in love with D’Artagnan and perhaps that’s why he fought so hard to keep her. It wasn’t love; it was never love between them, she knew that now. But another man did love her and Jacques couldn’t stand that. He always wanted the best of everything and D’Artagnan looked at Constance like she was the best woman in the world. 

If Aramis makes the Queen feel like that...well, Constance understands it now. Louis, she supposes, is not all that unlike Jacques really.

And yet here she is, crying over him.

Aramis rubs her arm. It occurs to her that it’s not really appropriate for her to cry on him or him to comfort her. Aramis is her lover’s friend and he never liked her husband. He’s been rooting for her and D’Artagnan ever since she took him in, and she really shouldn’t be crying on him when she’s been avoiding D’Artagnan ever since he delivered the news about Jacques. 

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologises again.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ he says. ‘If anything, I’m sorry you have to put up with me.’

The corners of Constance’s lips turn up slightly at that and she huffs a very wet sort of laugh. ‘You’ve never been sorry about that before.’

Aramis grins dutifully and shrugs. ‘You’ve caught me in a rare moment of modesty.’

She pulls away and wipes her eyes, tears still brewing but she’s got a hold on them now. Her face feels tight and the butt of Aramis’ gun is digging a little into her thigh. She shifts on the stoop and his arms slips off her shoulder.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks now she seems to have recovered and she huffs a little with a laugh that contains no joy. 

‘I’ve been better,’ she says truthfully but Aramis is relieved to hear a touch of warmth in her tone again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry all over you.’

‘Constance, please. It’s okay.’

‘I know but I shouldn’t have. You’re tired, I’m tired and I haven’t even seen D’Artagnan-’ She stops herself as if she shouldn’t mention his name but Aramis isn’t stupid.

‘He’s worried about you.’

‘I know,’ she says, looking up at Aramis’ face and thankful to see understanding there. ‘But I can’t see him. It’s only been two days.’

‘Constance,’ he replies softly. ‘You don’t have to punish yourself.’

She’s a little taken aback at that and pulls away from him. ‘I’m not punishing myself. It’s been two days, Jacques isn’t even cold yet and I can’t just go and leap into the arms of my- my- my lover!’ 

Her lip trembles again and the word lover doesn’t sound like it should, tumbling as it does from her angry mouth. 

‘I didn’t say that-’

‘No but that’s what everyone’s thinking isn’t it.’ She gets to her feet. ‘Now I’m free! But it doesn’t work like that and even after all that Jacques did,’ she places a strand of hair behind her ear and ignores the way her split lip seems to throb, ‘he still deserves to be mourned by his wife.’

There’s silence in the alleyway now. Aramis breaks it.

‘When’s the funeral?’

Constance raises her eyebrows. She hadn’t expected that. ‘What?’

‘When’s the funeral? I’d like to attend.’

‘Aramis-’

‘Constance,’ he says firmly. ‘I’d like to attend.’

All the indignation goes out of her like air out of a balloon. 

‘Tomorrow at noon. It’s only small, but there’ll be a wake afterwards, you don’t have to come-’

He rises to stand in front of her. ‘Tomorrow at noon. I’ll see you there.’ He stands and kisses her on the cheek, and slowly they part. 

He offers to walk her back to the palace, but seeing the slight dullness in his tired eyes, she politely declines. He takes her hand and squeezes it before he leaves, tells her to send word should she need anything at all and gives her a solemn little wave as he retreats back to the garrison. 

She watches him go for a second before pulling her shawl tightly around her and heading the opposite way back to the palace, the chill making her shiver a little as it reaches her and her thoughts stray again to the funeral. She hopes Aramis will be true to his word (and finds herself thinking that she can’t possibly imagine a world where he wouldn’t be). She would welcome the friendly face and that somehow makes her feel a little stronger, as if the world isn’t quite as bleak as it felt an hour ago.  
Not quite. Still, she tries not to cry.

\------------

She sits at the front of the church, a mournful sight dressed all in black and she ignores the whispers of two women behind her. They are widows too, professional mourners as well, but they are not here for her or Jacques - they were never rich enough to be invited into such folds. They are here for gossip or, Constance thinks, maybe they do want to recruit her now she has the ear of the Queen. She feels sick thinking about any of it so she doesn’t. Or she tries not to. 

There are just six people in the church, including herself. Her guilt blossoms like spilt ink because Jacques would hate this and no matter what he had done, he wasn’t always awful. Or perhaps he was always awful, in his way but still, she doesn’t want this. She wrings her hands and pulls at the fingers of her lace gloves awkwardly. She wishes the priest would just get on with it, instead of waiting for a crowd that’s simply never going to come.

The door of the church creaks open and she can’t help but turn to see who it is. Something like relief pricks at her heart when she sees Aramis there, sneaking into a pew. The women behind her look too and turn their heads so fast back to face the front, Constance thinks they’re lucky not to have cracked each other’s heads open. 

Aramis must notice but he doesn’t show it. Just seeks out Constance and offers her a small smile. His Crucifix, the one gifted to him by the Queen, hangs out of his jacket, and his hand goes to it reflexively. She forgets, sometimes, how earnest he is. 

She turns back, and perhaps emboldened by Aramis’ presence or just furious that anyone would read something ulterior into his act of kindness, she catches the eye of one of the women and holds it sternly for just a second before she looks away. The whispering stops.

The service is short, and Constance is thankful for that. She isn’t expected to make a speech and she’s thankful for that too. She sings her hymns dutifully, listens patiently to every word the priest says and pays her respects to the man who was supposed to have loved her. Who she was supposed to love in return. Again, she wishes for another world where she could have met D’Artagnan first or one where she could have put her family off trying to arrange her marriage so soon, but alas, that is the lot of woman isn’t it? She told D’Artagnan that herself. 

She remains seated at the front of the church as the handful of people gathered file out. She hears soft footsteps behind her and knows it’s Aramis.

‘Constance,’ he says, as he comes to a stop beside her pew.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, quietly but quickly, before he can say anything else. She can feel the mention of D’Artagnan coming and wonders how much it took for the others to keep him away. She reaches out and he takes her hand as she gets to her feet, giving his fingers a little grateful squeeze as she does so. 

‘Really,’ she says, looking him in the face properly. ‘Thank you, Aramis.’

He bows slightly. ‘Of course.’ He waits a moment as she smooths downs her skirt and reattaches her shawl, before offering her his arm to hold so he can escort her outside. ‘What are you going to do now?’

She finds that she doesn’t really know how to answer that. ‘You mean generally or the wake? Because I don’t know how many people will come to that looking-’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Aramis, you don’t have to-’

‘I was planning on escorting you home anyway. It’s no trouble.’

They walk arm in arm, in companionable silence and Constance wonders when this became so natural. She is well aware of the frantic whispers following her out of the church and into the street, arm in arm with yet another Musketeer, but she can’t bring herself to care anymore, not when this is the most solid she’s felt in days. If Aramis notices them, again he does nothing to show it and she is grateful for that too.

Her mind wanders then to D’Artagnan because really, it’s all thanks to him, this friendship that she really didn’t know she needed so much until she did; he is the glue that holds them all together. She wonders where he is, if Aramis actually even told him where he was going, but she stops herself quickly, as she has done every other time he’s crept into her thoughts since her husband’s death, because it’s Jacques’ _funeral_ for goodness sake and _it’s not fair_. 

They arrive at her door and she stops, looking at this house she shared with her husband and feeling like a stranger, as she has done almost every time she stepped over the threshold. It really only ever felt like her home when Jacques was away. But funnily enough, that isn’t the case now. 

‘Would you like me to escort you back to the palace instead?’ Aramis asks, looking from the door to her, somehow understanding her as sharply as he ever has, and she really would marvel at it on any other day. For now, she sighs and shakes her head.

‘No one’s going to turn up,’ she says sadly. ‘But I have to at least be here, I think.’

She extricates her arm from Aramis’ and goes to unlock the door. Aramis waits to be invited and she wishes she could roll her eyes at him for it but it’s really not that sort of occasion, is it? Pretending to be annoyed at Aramis is something she’d rather save for days she is happy, not now, when she’s dressed in black and ushering him into the dreary house of her dead husband.

She busies herself with putting a pot of tea on the stove almost as soon as she’s entered, and when she turns back to Aramis, she sees that he is looking almost sadly at the small plate of sandwiches she’d prepared before she left. She flushes and waves them away dismissively.

‘Oh they’re nothing, I just thought, you know, in case-’

‘Constance,’ Aramis says, halting her oncoming spiral. ‘They look lovely.’ He gives her a small smile and looks at her beneath his eyebrows. ‘It is not the sandwiches I am concerned about.’

‘Oh,’ she says, and waves him off again, turning back to the kettle on the fire. ‘It’s fine, I’m fine, honestly-’

‘Constance-’

‘To be honest, I’ve been feeling so many things lately, fine seems about the only way to describe it,’ she says frankly, as if she hasn’t heard him. She puts out two cups and a little stand to prevent the kettle from burning the table, even though there’s no one living there anymore to care. Tomorrow she’ll be back at the palace and all scorchmarks anywhere else will be forgotten.

Except, you know, she thinks dramatically, maybe not one. 

‘I haven’t cried today,’ she says matter-of-factly as she pours out the tea for them both. ‘Does that say something about me, do you think? That I’ve not cried today?’ She looks up at him briefly and sees him looking at her, head tilted to one side in a horrible show of understanding, pity even, and tears do brim in her eyes then, at his stupid, open face. ‘Well, you’ve ruined it now.’ 

She pushes a mug of tea across to him and he takes it gratefully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. 

‘Whatever for?’ she asks, wiping her eyes and hoping that she can stop the sudden onslaught of tears before they start properly. 

‘I seem to be developing a habit of making you cry.’

She laughs hollowly. ‘I must be the only woman in Paris who cries at the sight of you.’

He smiles at that. ‘Precisely what makes you so important. Who else would keep me so grounded?’

‘I think Athos tries his best.’

‘Ah, many have tried, but few have been successful. Young D’Artagnan for instance-’ He stops, and bows his head. ‘Apologies, Madame. I did not mean-’

She schools her face into as neutral an expression as she can manage. ‘It’s fine,’ she says, waving him off. ‘I don’t fear his name yet. How, um- how is he?’ The nonchalance she had hoped to achieve is belied by the very real concern that bleeds into the question. She knows Aramis sees through it. 

‘Well, he misses you,’ he responds, matter-of-factly. ‘He desperately wanted to come to the funeral today, but we thought it would perhaps be for the best if he didn’t. Nearly gave me a black eye for saying so, but,’ he pauses, perhaps to make his next point all the clearer, ‘he understands really. He’s just worried, that’s all.’

Constance stares at her tea and chews on her bottom lip, not knowing at all what to say because of course D’Artagnan is worried about her, and of course, she misses him fiercely, but it doesn’t feel right to say it. She turns the mug around absently with her thumb. ‘Please tell him not to be on my account,’ she says quietly. ‘I just need time, that’s all.’

Aramis sighs, but it isn’t impatient or unkind. ‘Constance,’ he says softly (she wonders when her name became so much of a comfort when spoken in his voice). ‘Do you not think you ought to tell him that yourself?’

She is flustered and withdraws her hand from her cup, picking at the table almost angrily instead. She doesn’t even look at Aramis, but opens her mouth to say something indignant (she wasn’t sure what exactly, but she was sure of the tone), but he stops her. ‘If you want him to leave you for the time being, I’m sure he’ll understand. I’ll even urge him to myself, black eye be damned. But,’ he says, taking her hand in his. ‘It is not a crime, nor an insult to Monsieur Bonacieux’s memory, to talk to him. He just wants to know you’re okay.’ He pauses. ‘And I think you miss him too.’

Tears fill her eyes again, because Aramis is right, she misses him, but it isn’t okay is it? It isn’t right and she hates it, hates that her stupid mind betrays her every time it can, and -

Aramis looks stricken at her face. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to push, it was not my place-’

‘Oh shut up, you stupid man,’ she says, through tears that have freely fallen now. ‘You’ve seen me cry far too many times over the last few days.’ She hesitates before adding, ‘And actually, I think you did mean to push.’

He looks ashamed. ‘I am sorry for it. I’ll go.’

He rises to stand and she rises with him, but to his surprise, she puts a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘Don’t,’ she says, shaking her head. Her bottom lip trembles and she suspects it’s instinct that compels him to pull her into a hug, his hand resting in her hair. For the second time in a week, she cries into leather. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘Constance, I never meant for-’

‘It’s okay,’ she mumbles. ‘It’s not your fault.’

The lonely plate of sandwiches catches her eye again, and she has to look away, burying her face in his doublet. It takes a moment for him to adjust, but he does, his arms unfolding and folding tightly back around her shoulders. She knows he understands. 

Constance has been hesitant to think of Aramis’ relationship with the Queen thus far, for thinking of it alone is nothing short of treason, but her mind drifts to it now. The Queen risks everything by being in love with this Musketeer, and so does Aramis, but Constance should have known better than to think it foolish. After all, risking her own life always came so naturally when D’Artagnan’s was in danger. 

‘How do you do it?’ she says, muffled by tears and buttonholes, unable to stop herself from asking even though it’s personal and downright dangerous to speak aloud. ‘Love someone when you shouldn’t?’

He tenses, clearly taken aback by the question, and she pulls away to look up at him, wondering if he might not answer. He shrugs tightly. ‘Love is a gift,’ he says, his face and voice working hard to not betray too much emotion, but the slight tremor under his eye gives him away. ‘We cannot choose who to direct it to, but cherish it when it happens.’ He looks down at her kindly, a smile in his eyes. ‘But perhaps I am not the best person to ask.’

She huffs a little half laugh and nods, pulling her hand up to swipe at her eye and pulling away. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry-’

‘Constance, I think we’ve already established that it is my honour to have you cry on me, and we will not speak of it again.’

She puffs out another little titter before her face almost crumples again but she whacks him with the back of her hand instead. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘I don’t need encouraging.’

He smiles at her. ‘If you ever need anything, anything at all-’

‘I know,’ she says. 

‘And I really am sorry for bringing up-’ he stops himself and swallows, slightly shifting on his feet uncomfortably before continuing, ‘-our mutual friend. It was tactless, and-’

‘If you see him,’ she says, with more resolution than she feels. ‘Tell him it’s okay. And if he wants to stop by-’

‘You don’t have to-’

‘I know,’ she says again. ‘But wild horses couldn’t keep that boy away when Jacques was alive, I can hardly abandon Porthos and Athos to their fate.’

Aramis grins and nods knowingly. ‘Still, if you want us to-’

‘You’ve done more than enough,’ she says firmly. ‘Truly. It’s time. Or at least, maybe it will be soon.’ She wipes at her eyes again. ‘I can’t avoid him forever.’

Aramis looks at her kindly. ‘I meant what I said you know,’ he says sincerely. ‘There is nothing you need punish yourself for. You deserve a life. You deserve to be happy.’

There’s the threat of tears again and she growls with frustration. ‘Oh honestly, be gone with you,’ she says, but there’s nothing but fondness in her voice now, a far cry from their meeting yesterday. ‘Take some of these with you.’ She pulls the plate of sandwiches towards her, wraps a few up in a cloth, and presses them into his hand as he looks on with a faint air of bemusement.

She shrugs. ‘Someone has to eat them.’

He nods in thanks, and goes to open the door. He stops just short, hand on the doorknob, and turns back to her, and she looks at him as if to say ‘What now?’. 

‘It will be okay,’ he says. ‘It might not feel like it now, but it will be.’

It takes her a second to respond but in the end she nods. ‘Thank you,’ she mouths, her voice all but gone as he turns the doorknob to leave. Tears prickle at the back of her eyes as she watches him go. 

She knows what comes next isn’t going to be easy, and it certainly isn’t going to be over, but she also knows that Aramis is right. She misses D’Artagnan, feels unsettled without him to talk to, like a boat that’s lost its mooring. Avoiding him is not going to bring Jacques back. She’ll no doubt find some other way to atone, at least one that doesn’t demand her silence, even if it demands everything else.

After all, she thinks, Jacques silenced her for too long already; D’Artagnan was the one who helped her regain her voice. She wonders what the bigger crime is; not liking her husband in the first place or denying herself real love now he’s gone, and later, when she is again reminded that there is one woman in Paris who understands, she realises that there isn’t always a choice. Not when you’re married to the King of France.

Love is love, and no one should have to deny themselves that, not when it’s real and true and pure. _I owe it to myself_ , Constance thinks. _And I owe it to them._

_Treason be damned._

**Author's Note:**

> So I've alluded to the end of The Prodigal Father, but don't worry, I haven't fudged up timelines too much this time. She may be ready to talk to D'Artagnan but she's not quite ready to jump in with both feet first and be all loved up just yet. But she won't be alone anymore. She won't be silent. 
> 
> We stan one (1) queen's confidante.


End file.
